


Temporary

by days4daisy



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Cock Warming, Forced Orgasm, M/M, Non-Consensual Blow Jobs, Nonconathon Treat, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-05 06:36:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15164789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: “Loki, sweetheart? I’m feeling a bit nippy. You got a cure for that?”





	Temporary

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lionessvalenti](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lionessvalenti/gifts).



> A little treat for you, lionessvalenti :)

“Where has my sweet Loki run off to? Loki, doll?” Loki forces a smile. At least the room is not well-populated today. It could be worse. It has been worse.

Loki used to answer the Grandmaster's call with more charm. He would swan to the Grandmaster’s clamshell throne with all the grace of his royal upbringing. Now, Loki struggles to keep a hitch out of his step. Loki hurts. He has hurt for weeks, each day introducing him to new ways to feel pain.

“There you are! Loki, dearest.” The Grandmaster smiles like Loki lights up a room; impossible with Sakaar’s garish colors.

“Did you miss me?” Loki greets.

“I always miss you, Lo! You - there’s no one like you, you know that.”

Specialness keeps one alive on Sakaar, but it is not something to strive for. Loki laughs kindly. “You flatter me, Grandmaster,” he says.

The Grandmaster holds out an arm. As requested, Loki tucks himself into the crook of the Grandmaster’s elbow.

“So, how we doing?” The Grandmaster thumbs Loki's hip through his pants. “Last night was kinda rough, hm? You’re up, though, you’re moving. That’s good, sweetheart, real good!” Last night involved tests of flexibility and stamina. And rope, lots of rope.

Loki keeps his expression pleasant. “I’m well, thank you for asking.”

“So _polite_!” The Grandmaster beams and tightens his arm. Loki stumbles close enough for the Grandmaster to nose up the hem of his blouse. “Mmm, royalty." The Grandmaster takes a deep breath. "I could listen to you talk for days. That voice of yours, stars, it’s _sinful._ ”

Loki only smiles. He does not fancy the idea of being made to speak for hours, but it is well within the Grandmaster's power. Surely, the Grandmaster would trick Loki's tongue into telling his most painful secrets. His crimes. His regrets. His feelings for the family that was never truly his.

How Thor must look down on Loki from the grand halls of Valhalla. How he must laugh at the comeuppance that has found his trickster brother.

“Hon, what... Your ribs, these bruises! How did you - ohhh nevermind, ha, I remember.” The Grandmaster bites a purple splotch, and Loki hisses. His discomfort makes the being grin. “Sensitive! That’s nice, real nice. When’d I give you these? Last week?”

Time bleeds together on Sakaar, much like the array of wounds festering on Loki's body. Who knows how long he’s had them. It does not matter, does it? “I believe so,” Loki says. Last week sounds as good a time as any.

“So.” The Grandmaster drops his volume, though no one is close enough to hear. “How’s your little present working out? You found the gift I left you this morning, right?”

The gift. Yes of course, that’s how he would think of it. “It's perfect, Grandmaster,” Loki forces himself to answer. “Thank you for your generosity.”

The Grandmaster sits his chin on Loki’s stomach. He smiles adoringly. “I love spoiling you, sweetheart, I really do.”

Loki combs fingers through the Grandmaster’s hair. He can do this, he tells himself. Some sweet words, a little doting. If this is all he has to deal with today, he can even pretend he’s enjoying it. After all, better to be here than rotting in Sakaar’s dungeons or lying face down in a pile of garbage.

The Grandmaster hums. “Loki, sweetheart? I’m feeling a bit nippy. You got a cure for that?”

Loki’s smile wanes. Behind him, he hears a snicker. Another being for Loki to kill when he finally escapes this place. And he will escape, he must.

“Of course,” Loki says as he sinks to his knees. Doing so reminds him of the “gift”; the long, thick plug buried in his ass. Loki's movements jam the cursed thing against his prostate. He grits his teeth against the sudden jolt of sensation.

“Hey, hey.” Loki schools back a wince when the Grandmaster grabs his chin. The Grandmaster squints at him. “What's going on? You don't look happy.”

“I'm very happy,” Loki says. “Getting comfortable, that's all."

“Wait, are you not comfortable?” Displeasure deepens the furrow of the Grandmaster's brow. “Why not? Is it your gift? Are you saying you don't like your gift?”

“I love my gift, Grandmaster,” Loki says, gentle hands on the creature's thighs. “I'm quite comfortable now. Shall I begin for you?” The Grandmaster looks at him in silence. Loki waits, forcing his smile to stay intact.

Finally, the Grandmaster waves a permissive hand. “For _us_ , Loki. Remember, this is for you as much as it is for me.”

“Yes, of course,” Loki says.

Weeks ago it would be taking everything in Loki’s power not to sob or scream. Now, he simply begins unlacing the Grandmaster's robe. Small mercies, the Grandmaster’s pants have only a drawstring today. His trembling fingers do not have to battle against tightly hooked buttons. Loki plucks the tie free and urges the Grandmaster's pants down. Gold pants, of course. Gold, sparkly pants to match his terrible robe and blue and red top.

The Grandmaster’s sandaled foot taps the floor expectantly. Loki gathers the Grandmaster’s cock into his mouth.

This is far from the only way the Grandmaster uses his face. The Grandmaster will gladly fuck his throat or drench Loki’s skin with his expend of seed. But this, Loki finds the most vile. To kneel like a bloody slave with the weight of the Grandmaster’s cock on his tongue.

 _Temporary,_ Loki repeats to himself. He digs nails into his palms when he feels a twitch between his lips. Loki tries to go numb. His tongue wants to rebel, displeased with the Grandmaster’s size and taste. The Grandmaster does not like when Loki moves without being bid. What did he say that one time? Ah, yes - _I know what it does, sweetheart. I don’t need a reminder._

Loki pictures slicing the creature's throat open like a severed vein. He pictures the blood that would come - red surely, as bright as the Grandmaster's sham of a kingdom. Loki thinks of the lovely sound the Grandmaster would make when he falls.

The Grandmaster pats Loki's head like some palace pet. Anger simmers through Loki’s veins.

Were Loki to call the winter from his core, could the Jotun's ice freeze the creature’s cock? Could Loki bite it off with his ragged, monstrous teeth and spit it triumphantly on the floor? Loki would die. He knows he would, and he is not quite prepared to die. One day, though. One day, if this continues.

Loki's knees ache, and his thighs stretch uncomfortably. His leather slacks are flush to his ass, a harsh reminder of the breach inside him. In this position, there is no room for Loki to ease the toy’s strain. Sweat beads on Loki’s brow, and goosebumps rise on his skin.

Around them, conversation continues, no mind paid to Loki’s degradation. Loki is worse than a slave, then. A slave would at least earn a passing snicker for his misfortune. Loki is an accessory, no more prized among this company than a chair cushion. Pretty but meaningless. A room dressing, nothing more.

Loki wrings his hands in a feeble attempt to keep his body from shaking. The more he tenses, the more insistent the object between his thighs becomes. It shifts, and Loki swallows to keep from whining.

The Grandmaster fists his hair. “None of that,” he chides. “It’s not showtime, Lo. We want to be polite for our guests, don’t we?”

Guests?

The Grandmaster leans forward in his chair, and into Loki by proxy. Loki rocks back on his heels. “My, now that’s a fighter! What’s he called?” the Grandmaster asks. “It is a ‘he’?”

“He was a miner on Knowhere before he landed here.” Loki knows this voice. Smooth as scotch, a purr of honeyed arrogance. Scrapper-142. “A contender, Grandmaster.”

“Oh yeah.” Loki does not need to look to know the Grandmaster is smiling. “Quite the contender. A miner, you said? Good with his hands. And those muscles, wowza! Yeah, he’ll do nicely.”

“What _are_ you!?” A deep voice booms. “This is crazy, I’m not for sale, you-”

A low, rumbling buzz chops off his words. Boots spasm against what must be one of the Grandmaster’s special chairs.

Before, Loki used to tell himself he had the sweeter end of Sakaar’s bargain. Yes, he had to degrade himself, but at least he was not forced into a barbaric battle to the death. Now, Loki is not so sure. Loki tries for a peek.

He chokes when the fist in his hair forces his head back. The Grandmaster’s cock surges heavy on Loki's tongue. “No,” the Grandmaster says.

One word, an order given to a disobedient mutt.

The Grandmaster laughs, as if nothing has happened. “He’s wonderful,” he enthuses. “I like you, 142. You’ve got a real eye for talent! I always get the best from you, the best.”

“I’ll take eight million,” 142 hums. Loki feels her eyes on his back. What he wouldn’t give to stab her straight through her smirking face.

“Works for me,” the Grandmaster says. “Topaz will transfer the units. Well done, 142. Guards?” He nods to where - Loki presumes - the latest snack for the Grandmaster’s champion awaits. “Take our new contender downstairs, will you? Thanks so much. Very good. Oh, 142?” Fingers tighten in Loki's hair.

It’s the only warning Loki has before the Grandmaster thrusts forward. Loki gags around the sudden pressure stabbing his throat. He wretches, and spit dribbles down his chin.

“I don’t suppose you’d like a little more than the money?” the Grandmaster croons. “I’ve got my Lo-Lo here all buttered up. And - watch, watch!” A purr shudders through Loki’s core without warning. His knees give way. The gift  _vibrates_. Loki’s whimpers around the Grandmaster cock.

“He’s a doll, isn’t he?” the Grandmaster laughs. “I’m not much of a sharer. I mean, I’m pretty generous, don’t get me wrong, but there are certain things I can’t! But Loki here is too good; so well behaved, so responsive.”

The object hums against Loki’s prostate. Loki coughs around the Grandmaster’s cock, jaw aching, tears in his eyes. The Grandmaster’s fist is tight in his hair.

“Whaddya say?” the Grandmaster offers. “Want to play?”

Loki’s cock is heavy in his pants, and his dizzy eyes fix to the Grandmaster’s navel. Anything to keep the room from tilting further. The Grandmaster won’t approve of Loki vomiting on his sandals.

A long pause follows the Grandmaster’s invitation. Long enough for 142 to shed the clothes her drink-loosened fingers have managed to toss on, no doubt. Shame and fury burn Loki's face. He’s breathing too hard, heart pounding in his chest.

A fresh buzz between Loki's thighs forces him to plant hands on the floor for balance. His cry is muffled by the Grandmaster’s dick.

Loki barely hears 142 over the throb of his own heartbeat. “Not my type,” she mutters, ice in her voice. “Thanks.”

The Grandmaster either does not catch her disdain, or chooses not to care about it. His response is easy and light. “Thank _you_ , 142. You’re my favorite, don’t forget. Well now...guess we better finish up, huh?”

The plug shudders harder inside Loki. This time, it doesn’t stop.

Loki's shout is stifled by the Grandmaster’s cock ramming down his throat. Loki shudders, pain aching through his jaw. His throat is raw. Fresh tears burn his eyes, blearing the Grandmaster into a smear of gold and sunned skin. Desperately, Loki digs a hand between his own legs. Pleasure strikes his spine and cascades down his nerves. Loki feels hot, too hot, he can’t breathe. His mouth is overfull, flooded with the Grandmaster’s taste. Every desperate inhale through his nose picks up the Grandmaster’s scent.

The buzzing intensifies, and Loki whimpers. He’s off balance, and the Grandmaster takes advantage. Loki stumbles; black spots swim in front of his eyes. The Grandmaster’s cockhead hits Loki’s throat, and it does not matter how much Loki retches. The Grandmaster does not stop. Loki's mouth rubs raw, lips broken and red. His own saliva smears across his skin, and his face screams, pulled too tight.

The humming inside Loki pulses harder. A higher setting. Loki screams and chokes around the Grandmaster's cock. He’s coming in his pants, scrabbing a weak hand at himself.

The Grandmaster still won’t let him breathe. “Naughty, naughty,” he purrs, “I didn’t say you could come first. You know better, Lo.” Fear and nausea war in Loki’s gut.

The vibrating has not stopped. Loki is done, shaking, heart slamming against his chest. His head swims. He wants to pass out, but it’s worse when he passes out. More than once, Loki has woken to find the Grandmaster still toying with his body. But Loki feels so ill; the buzzing won’t stop, he is already spent, it needs to stop! Loki can’t stay still, his hands twitch uselessly against his thighs. Loki can’t breathe, the humming is too intense. It won’t stop, it feels too good, it hurts too much. He can’t breathe.

The Grandmaster's nails scratch Loki’s scalp as his balls smack Loki’s chin. He holds Loki’s head firmly in his lap. “Ahhh, there,” he breathes. Short spasms of release grind against Loki’s mouth, and cum spurts against the back of his throat. Loki's stomach heaves, but he has to swallow. His head throbs with sickness.

Loki sobs when the vibrator finally goes silent.

“Yeah,” the Grandmaster sighs, “yeah, that was nice.” He lets Loki go.

Without hands in his hair, Loki goes limp on the floor. He tries to swallow back his coughs, but muting them makes his stomach flip more severely.

The Grandmaster peers at Loki’s recoiled body. “We’ve gotta work on your timing,” he says. “I don’t like being rushed, sweetheart. Your stamina, it’s-” he makes a face, “it’s a work in progress. You’ll get it, though. We’ll keep practicing, you and me.”

Keep practicing.

“Aw.” The Grandmaster thumbs tears from Loki’s cheeks. “Don’t cry, sweetheart. It’s not your fault. Your stamina, it's like - it's a muscle, it needs training. I’m not mad; not mad, just - I want you to be better. We’ll work on it, ok?”

Loki's tears refuse to stop. Streaks of salt cut through the drying saliva on his face.

The Grandmaster smiles. “Want to go get cleaned up?” Loki manages a nod. The motion webs fresh soreness through his jaw. “Go on. It’s Commodore night, don’t forget! Flyin’ hiiiiigh in the sky. I’ll keep an eye out for you, doll. Wear something pretty for me?”

Loki forces himself to rise on shuddering legs. Cooling cum sticks in his pants, and the plug in his ass wedges unbearably. The room tilts, and Loki pauses, hand clamped over his mouth.

Loki swallows hard. The nausea eases enough for him to move. Limping, unsteady steps carry him out of the Grandmaster’s courtroom. He barely makes it around a corner before his legs give out. Loki curls on the floor, coughing. His throat burns, and he keeps a shaking hand to his mouth.

The slosh of liquid alerts Loki that he is not alone. He lifts his head to find 142 leaning on a wall, half-drained whiskey bottle clutched to her chest. Her eyes are on him, and Loki’s blood flares. “What?” he demands; a near-hysterical shriek.

142’s mouth pulls in a deeper snarl. She gives him a wobbly bow, bottle dangling off her fingertips. “Nothing,” she mumbles, “your majesty.” The scrapper stumbles off, and Loki tucks himself closer to the wall. His brain is a scattershot of fragmented thoughts. Far too jumbled to wonder why this snake of a slave trader would call him ‘your majesty.’

This is temporary, Loki tells himself. He will escape, it’s only a matter of time. Temporary, only temporary. Loki buries his face against his knees.

*The End*


End file.
